“Aren’t you going to try it?” Kleo whispered expectantly. The edge in her voice rekindled his excitement at the prospect of solving a deep mystery. Perhaps because he knew how his own meager intellect compared to others, Jak always took pride in figuring out difficult puzzles. He lifted Kleo’s discovery, matched the three charms to their respective holes, and pushed them in. There was a clicking sound as some unseen mechanism triggered, then a smooth rumble as the heavy stone door slid open on its own, propelled by some unfathomable power.
The two of them exchanged a look of amazement. Then Jak held the torch out, and they stared into an immense octagonal chamber filled with more bookshelves—not merely lining the walls, but row upon row throughout, with barely room to walk between. And on every shelf sat whole, undamaged books. Somehow, the hermetic sanctum prevented their decay.
This place put the Archives in Everdawn to shame. There Jak could have spent years reading everything—were he capable of reading, of course. Here he could spend lifetimes.
“Jak!” Kleo hissed in a harsher whisper. “Jak!”
He stopped, only now realizing he had walked in. He was standing in a narrow lane between two of the heavy hardwood rows, his feet carefully spread so as not to step on the volumes stacked on the floor. Glancing back, he noted a curious look of apprehension on his companion’s comely face. “Come on in,” he said in a conversational tone. “There’s nothing to fear.”
Reluctantly, she joined him, and they moved slowly throughout the library within a library. He stopped at a series of particularly large tomes and held the torch up to the words exquisitely scrawled on their broad spines. “What are these?”
She shook her head. “That’s not a language I recognize.”
Disappointed, he moved on. Three more times he stopped at something notably interesting or compelling, and each time she shook her head.
The flush of excitement was beginning to wane when they reached the end of the row. Jak turned up the next, then felt her fingers grab his arm. She pointed. “There.”
He held the torch out where she indicated as she moved closer to one of the smaller, less imposing bookshelves. She pulled one book off, looked at the cover, then flipped it open to the middle of its delicate thin pages. She looked up enthusiastically. “Carthic. I don’t know it well, but enough to read some. This is about plants.”
“Are all these Carthic?”
She quickly scanned along the row. “Aye.” She continued to the next section. “Come on, Jak!”
Now she led and he followed. “Dauphi!” she exclaimed. “I don’t know it much at all, but I’m sure these are Dauphi.” She absentmindedly pulled him closer as she approached a third section, the smallest yet with the least impressive books they had seen. She picked one up and inspected it, then smiled at him so beautifully that the underworld brightened. Her finger gently tapped the cover. “Imperial.”
There is a lesson in the story of the Chekiks, for the race that enslaved the hratha were once slaves themselves. Subjugation, maltreatment, and suffering inevitably lead to determination, violence, and independence.
The inhuman beasts we know today started as a pacifistic society on the eastern fringes of the continent. Then the burgeoning Azilian Empire swept over the land, dominating those it had use for and slaying the rest. The tall and weak Chekiks were made into teachers and scribes. Over time servility became zeal, humility became ferocity, and erudition became power.
Recognizing that the Azilians found strength in their barbaric gods, the Chekiks discovered deities of their own. The Nine Devils taught their new worshipers how to fight with such cruelty that even their savage overlords learned to flee and submit rather than suffer the brutal consequences of defeat. Of those who fought, the lucky were those who died in battle, for the taken faced a far more terrible fate. Prisoners watched as the Chekiks devoured their comrades alive, slowly and tortuously, tormented screams pleasing the gluttons like wine and seasoning. And each onlooker knowing their own turn would come.
The Azilians were dispersed and eradicated, effectively annihilated from existence everywhere but these fragile pages of history. Even their warlike gods were thrown down by The Nine Devils, who became the new rulers of the otherworlds above and below, spreading their evil traditions with each new land the relentless Chekiks conquered. Their malignant liturgies grow more twisted and craven with each passing year, and will continue to do so until this world is consumed, or they themselves cast aside and replaced by a stronger pantheon of a new people.
The Chekican Communion has existed for a dozen generations and may thrive for a dozen more, but its end will surely come as its beginning—at the hands of those made slaves. The hratha lineage will surely become the masters. And will find its own victims to subjugate and mistreat. Such is the circle of time.
Kleo was capable, but stylistically far less emotional and emphatic as she read. Her voice spoke the words in a near monotone, so very unlike the way the words jumped off the page when Calla had gone with him to the Archives. Jak had always thought reading was reading, but as with so many things lately, he was discovering a new level of complexity. The world was never as simple as it appeared.
Nevertheless, he was thrilled at the turn of events. Never had he better understood Riff’s constant urge to explore. This discovery—solving one puzzle of many—only piqued his appetite to learn more. Terrible as this underground cavern was, desperate as the five of them were to escape, leaving this place and all these books behind would be very difficult indeed.
“Here they are!” Kluber’s astonished voice echoed inside the enclosed space. Jak and Kleo looked up in surprise as their companions entered.
“You two figured out the door!” Kluber exclaimed in wonder. “How did you do it?”
The question was aimed at Jak, but he ignored it for the moment. His gaze was drawn to Calla, her every motion and reaction registering in his mind with perfect clarity. She took in the scene with one quick view, her eyes moving from him to Kleo and the book she held. A gleam flashed in her eyes, a wave of resentment rolling across her amiable features. Then the look disappeared just as abruptly. She smiled at Kleo. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” Then she turned and walked out.
Kluber placed a hand on Jak’s shoulder. “You have to tell me everything. On the way back. I’m starving.”
The banter during supper was noticeably more convivial and less restrained than usual. Jak allowed Kleo to recount the events leading to the unexpected reunion in the library. She fielded questions happily, the return of pleasure to her face giving satisfaction to those who had worried about her.
As promised, he and Kluber reassessed their plans afterward. The ugly affliction on Kleo’s back was still a concern, but at least was not inflicting any overtly deleterious effect on the girl. Riff remained the higher priority, and they elected to spend at least another day searching for him. Jak tried not to believe that the reason he agreed to the plan so readily was in order to spend more time with the books. But he did know that in the morn he would suggest they relocate their camp to the library.
When they finally lay down to sleep, the mood was as light-hearted and optimistic as any since their harried flight from the demons above.
Jak awoke to the shaking of his shoulder. He opened his eyes and found a momentary relief in the sight of Calla. But the worry in her face quickly washed away that spontaneous hope. The doubts flooded back in one tremendous wave.
“Something’s happening,” she said.
Jak nodded and sat up. Kluber and Kleo were already standing, both staring into the distance. Toward the city center.
Nothing out of the ordinary was visible, but they all felt the pull.
Barely speaking, the foursome hurried as one toward a location that they were coming to know all too well. Kleo was the first to see the bright blue spot standing out from the hazy greenish rockfire. She pointed it out, the speed of their steps taking on a new urgency, and one by one the others saw
it, too.
A radiance like flames, alike in every way but color. Even as Jak squinted to make out the details, the effulgence receded. They ran the rest of the way, along a wide avenue surrounded by collapsed structures and ancient ghosts and anguished fears. Yet the closer they came, the dimmer the beacon. The blue flames were dying out.
They stopped on the edge of the plaza, not far from where they had stood days before. A new skeleton had replaced the previous, and a fresh pile of soot and ash.
“This one is smaller,” Kleo said.
“Perhaps it’s a woman,” Calla suggested.
Jak waited for Kluber, but the taller boy was riveted to his spot, silent and uneasy.
So the reluctant leader of the refugees approached the remains. Bending down to feel through the warm ashes, his fingers brushed over an object. He lifted a whistle shaped like a snake, patches of ash dulling the luster of white alabaster.
Kluber kneeled, head bowed in distress, and Calla placed a comforting hand on his back. The soft sobbing was the only sound in the world.
Desolate days, as if from a nightmare. Jak prayed they would soon end.
Chapter Five
Vilnian Border
Golden days, as if from a dream. Yohan hoped they would never end.
Not since the carefree years of his childhood in Parca had he so enjoyed the steady passage of time, from warming morn sunrise to the cool anticipation of sunset, and all the hours in between. His fellow soldiers were good companions, the harpa even better, and though still lacking a salve for the raw wound in his heart, Yohan could not recall ever feeling so at peace with his own existence.
The caravan enjoyed the last of three days camped on the banks of the Valena River, still north of the dividing line between Vilnia and Gothenberg. Farther to the south, he could make out the rounded peaks of the Triumph Mountains, a range that sliced eastward through the Gothic plains to merge with the greater Stormeres. The wagons would follow a trail straight through a break in the mountains ahead, a cut faintly visible from this distance.
The river provided a source of rest and resupply for the traders. As unhurried in these activities as they were in all things, the harpa used the river for restocking the water barrels, washing their abundant—and abundantly chromatic—clothing, and invigorating their bodies with brief swims in the frigid current. The Vilnians often observed—but did not join, due to strict orders from Corporal Mercer.
Not without reason. The first eve on the water’s edge caused no small commotion among the soldiers. The first time they had seen Silvo bathe in the nude led to hushed whispers and ribald anticipation that Meadow and Summer would follow suit. But then the two comely women and the handsome Patrik came out in discreet garments cut similarly to smallclothes, but designed for submersion.
Nevertheless, although not entirely naked, their lithe bodies were visible and appealing enough that the men gawked like boys before looking away in embarrassment. Yohan was not an exception. He had gazed upon the bare skin and plentiful curves of a princess, but that had been under such dire circumstances that it had not seemed remotely sensuous. These two, on the other hand, might have been seductive nymphs luring the soldiers to a watery grave. Not that they flaunted their bodies—well, perhaps Meadow was a bit deliberately provocative—but the combination of skin and splashing, laughter and longing made him as uncomfortable as the other men.
These glimpses brought an added excitement to the customary eve-time revelries, when the two dancers wore full dresses that covered these same bodies, yet everyone knowing what lay beneath. Innocent frolicking by day, impassioned exhibitionism by night—an undeniable appeal to this lifestyle of a people he had grown up believing were liars and thieves.
Yohan was never an active participant in the dancing, but always an avid observer and even an enthusiastic clapper. An Oster in the Vilnian army, long used to being treated as an outsider by his comrades, he had spent years building a protective layer of disinterest and separation. A layer that he could now feel crumbling, piece by piece, although he was unsure that he wanted it to.
Currently, the caravan’s established roles were reversed. After a tenday of the harpa entertaining their Vilnian escort, now was an opportunity for the soldiers to perform for the traders. Six contestants in a test of endurance.
Assuming the basic combat stance—knees flexed, right foot a single pace back—Yohan extended his left arm in a straight line at chin level. His eyes naturally gravitated along this axis, and he became only tangentially aware of the crowd all around. At a signal, he drew his sword and raised it to the same level as his arm, holding it horizontal and unmoving. The weapon felt light and comfortable, his wrist strong—but he knew that would change.
As the blades lifted, two more spectators joined the others. Lullaby and Pleasance moved about the camp as if its owners, haughty and aloof as lords in their manor, but today they were willing to slum with the peasants to observe this unfamiliar disruption to the daily rituals.
Meadow began counting. “One for Mother, Two for Sister, Three for Lover, Four. Five for trader, Six for jongleur, Se’en for soldier, Eight…”
Yohan had executed this training exercise many times in the early days. Holding this position for extended periods strengthened the muscles of the shoulder and arm, while repeated thrusting developed hand-eye coordination.
On this occasion, they were simply holding still. That was the entire competition. The sword had to be kept at the height of the outstretched arm for as long as possible. Whoever maintained the posture last would be the winner.
Yohan believed Bostik had the advantage. His personal weapon was a hand-and-a-half sword, longer and heavier than the standard imperial longsword, meaning his muscles had grown accustomed to a greater burden. His own sword would have precluded him from this event, of course, but Kelsey had lent him hers rather than take part. No one blamed her—although frequently more nimble than men, women did have a disadvantage in tests of strength. Yet to the astonishment of some—and evident delight of Meadow and Summer—freckled Krisa had joined the contest. Her thin, wiry frame was not particularly intimidating, but Yohan had watched her practice enough to know that she concealed a toughness and steely resolve.
At one-hundred he could feel the pressure in his arm mount. At two, a steady throbbing, not painful but persistent. At three, someone had replaced the blood in his arm with liquid fire. Disappointing and instructive, for at one time he would have gotten to five-hundred before feeling this effect. Clearly, he was out of practice and understrength—a dangerous condition when one’s livelihood is war.
Not that he was the only one. Duffey, Ledo, and Krisa had dropped their swords by this point. Only three competitors remained. And Brody’s arm was visibly shaking—not excessively, but even the minutest amount was perceptible to a veteran of as many fights as Yohan.
As a distraction from the discomfort, he allowed his mind to wander. He pondered the didactic nature of fights, and the relative merits of practice duels versus earnest battle. Most soldiers naturally saw far more of the former, but Yohan reckoned that each of the latter was ten times the value. Immediate peril clarified the senses. This shiver in Brody’s blade would have gone unnoticed if Yohan had not learned to detect the slightest movement as tell-tale signs of attack or vulnerability.
He expected Brody’s sword to drop at any moment now, and was surprised when Bostik resigned next. The point of his weapon stabbed into the earth, allowing the big man to rest his right arm on the pommel while his left hand slapped repeatedly against his temple in frustration. Brody laughed before bringing his eyes into focus on Yohan’s, a sly smile creeping onto his lips. “I can do this all day, Brother.”
“So can I.”
Brody’s smile slipped, and a look of determination replaced the amusement. Always outgoing and engaging, the garrulous private’s emotions were simple enough to read—he was desperate to win. Yohan was reminded of his friend’s spoken ambition to become a Swordthane, an
d his unspoken desire to find esteem—in himself, and in others.
Yohan’s eyes shifted from his opponent to those who watched. “Four-hundred… One for Mother, Two for Sister, Three for Lover, Four. Five for…”
He focused on Brody’s blade, the quivering more pronounced. It could not stay up much longer.
Yohan gritted his teeth, groaned, felt the intensifying pain in his own arm, and let his sword drop with a grunt.
Lullaby barked once in annoyance. Bostik pounded his head once more for good measure, while beside him Kelsey muttered an oath. Corporal Mercer snorted and turned back toward his tent.
“Ha-ha!” Brody cried, then slapped his living hand onto Yohan’s shoulder while the dead one hung limp and useless. Both of their swords now lay on the ground between their feet. “Close. You nearly had me.”
“I’m out of shape,” Yohan admitted. He began working the muscles of his sore forearm with the fingers of his left hand. Brody gave him one more pat, then turned away to share his exaltation with the lovely judge.
“Well proven, Soldier Brody,” Meadow said.
“It was the music of your voice that kept me strong.” He laughed, and so did she.
Yohan gave his arm one last rub, then retrieved his sword from the ground. As he sheathed it and looked up, his gaze landed on the duo of Summer and Patrik standing not far away. There was a wistful look on the young man’s face, as if he were contemplating life as a soldier. Keep your own, Yohan thought. This one pales in comparison. Then he noticed Summer looking at him, a bemused smile barely apparent. He raised a questioning eyebrow, but she simply shook her head. “A valiant defeat, Soldier Yohan.”
She was mocking him, but playfully. He did not mind, and merely nodded. Her smile increased, then she tucked her arm inside Patrik’s and led her betrothed away.
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